Invitation
by Virodeil
Summary: *Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled Series* – A young, curious, intrepid scholar, Loki Odinson seeks to know more and more, especially about the knowledge that is forbidden in Asgard. And there is no knowledge that is currently more forbidden than anything about Jötunheim and the red-eyed, blue-skinned, black-clawed giant monsters that inhabit it. So he asks round, including to them.
1. The Book

Invitation  
By Rey

**A young, curious, intrepid scholar, Loki Odinson seeks to know more, more, and more, especially about the knowledge that is forbidden in Asgard. And there is no knowledge that is currently more forbidden than anything about Jötunheim and the red-eyed, blue-skinned, black-clawed giant monsters that inhabit it. So he asks round, including to the monsters themselves.**

**Well, he should have been introduced to the adage: "Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it."**

_(Set a few days before Odin was supposed to declare Thor's upcoming coronation.)_

Story notes:  
1. This story is a gift for _Lov_pb_, one of my most faithful Marvel-fic reviewers, with the topic as requested by the said reviewer. Thank you for all your support!  
2. The timing of the declaration for Thor's coronation is inspired by _SofiaDragon_'s timeline in her series, _Another Turn of the Wheel_, namely a century before the events in _Thor 1_. The meaning of the lines on the jötnar's body is also inspired by her series.  
3. There is a biological and cultural difference in age for humans, jötnar and æsir, in my universe. In this fic, Loki is 1192 years old, about 14 or 15 years in modern human standard for an ás', biologically, but about 8 (nearly 9, maybe, or half-way there) in the same standard for a jötun.  
4. In Rey-verse, places like Asgard, Jötunheim, Vanaheim, Midgard etc are planets, not countries occupying specific plots of land. They are scattered in 9 different galaxies (called "realms," hence the Nine Realms) bearing their respective names, but interconnected tightly nonetheless through the pathways that make up Ygdrasil. It is why sometimes I will say e.g. "_in_ Asgard" while in another time I will say "_on_ Asgard." The former signifies the country or realm/galaxy, while the latter signifies the planet where the country lies. 

1\. The Book

**The Children of Ýmir: A Compendium  
By Voðen Bestla-Childe**

Carefully, oh so carefully, I pry the thick, huge, heavy-looking tome out of its nook on the highly warded shelf. It is nestled among a score and more of other tightly restricted manuscripts. However, those other topics do not interest – and appall – me as much as this one does.

Then again, throughout the centuries, I have managed to sneak a read on those other wells of knowledge, and yet not this one. The temptation of a new, rare type of knowledge compells me onward, even as confusion of who the author is and revulsion of what the knowledge pertains to makes me act slower than I ought to.

The slowness and distraction were always my bane in past attempts, when it came to sneaking this tome off the restricted section of Father's private library. But today Father is busy with his advisors and lords and generals, even more than the usual; too busy to catch me trying to spirit this tome away, hopefully. I do not know why I keep doing this, risking an ever-more-serious, ever-more-inventive punishment from Father each time….

Well, at least, this day I apparently need not risk such punishment.


	2. The Idea

Invitation  
By Rey

2\. The Idea

The information packed inside my pilfered tome has been… well… _informative_. Indirectly, it touts the "Children of Ýmir" – the _frost giants_ – as _people_, instead of the monstrous, slavering beasts that I have heard of thus far. I have not managed to read much, for various reasons, but from what I have read in these three days….

I purse my lips, as I find _yet again_ that my eyes have strayed from the tome laid open on my lap to the side-table. There, I have accumulated piles of notes, from _just_ the handful of sections that I have read. – Notes that give me more questions instead of answers. Notes that would have meant the beginning of a serious project for any other topic in this universe but _frost giants_. Notes that have been hounding me with the start of quite an extremely foolish, insane, bold, suicidal, horrible idea:

I am going to go to Jötunheim, _merely_ to complete my notes of the jötnar, and in the process proving or disproving the notion that they are _civilised people_.

Well, everyone is always complaining about my lack of "warrior traits," no? It may be time to prove them all wrong, in my own way. And even if I got killed because of this, people here would not mourn me, anyhow, save for my family – or rather, specifically, _my mother_.

Hmm. Time to _really_ take notes in earnest, then.


	3. The Familial Petition

Invitation  
By Rey

3\. The Familial Petition

"Child… are you sure…?" Mother is anxious. With reason, and I do agree with the reason, myself. But my heart is set, and my curiosity has been well ignited by now, trumping all concerns.

I nod as firmly as I can to her. – Yes, I wish to go to _Jötunheim_, for my own sake of _curiosity_ about the _whole_ Nine Realms and beyond.

A flimsy proposal, I know. It's flimsy even to my own ears. But I cannot tell them – tell _Father_ – that I have snuck a rather thorough read on one of Father's forbidden tomes.

And Father is looking at me thoughtfully, even as Thor joins in the protestation and insists that he accompany me in my quest, should I persist to embark on it. I stare back at him – Father, that is, not the ranting Thor – and refrain from raising an eyebrow in challenge. I do need his permission, and being considered insolent to him will not get me that permission. Unless… well… there is indeed another way… hmm.

Regardless, this new look of his does merit some digging. It is… odd, to sum it all in one definable word. Father is unreadable in most times, almost flat, and I have long made it a challenge and a game to define his moods and thoughts from the few signs he exudes; but this one…. There is _remembrance_ lurking deep in his gaze, tinged with pain and sorrow and even _longing_, and I cannot fathom _why_ – the _longing_, that is.

The time to wheedle the reason from him is _not_ now, though. Not when Thor is mentally and verbally – almost physically, _too_ – taking all the space at the family dining table, declaiming passionately about the monstrous barbarism and violence of the jötnar. Not when a permission _from the King_ for this quest of mine would _hopefully_ mean an easier, _safer_ time for me in the land of the monsters, either.

I do not even get any chance yet to put a word in edgewise to replead my case, as it is! The situation will just deteriorate – _fast_ – if I shut Thor up now, I know that well, but… but… but…!


	4. The Escape

Invitation  
By Rey

4\. The… Escape?

**Father, Mother and Thor,  
My apologies for leaving so suddenly and without prior notification. Wanderlust seized me, and I chose to heed it. I truly wish to update our knowledge about the herb lore from all over the Nine Realms, and maybe outside of it. Head Healer Eir has been wishing to update the usability of the healing stone, and I wish to gift her this knowledge for her upcoming name-day celebration.  
I have temporarily assigned the execution of my duties to a few trusted assistants and postponed others until I return. I may be out of contact for a while, since some of the places that I am going to visit are secluded or even secretive, but please rest your minds that I shall take all due caution and safety, especially in Jötunheim.  
Until I return, warmest regards from your son and brother,  
Loki Odinson**

And _that_ is the shield that I have fashioned to save myself from at least most of the future remonstrations and punishments dealt out by my family.

I hope so, in any case.

I hope, as well, that poor, kind Head Healer Eir will _not_ bear the brunt of my family's ire.

All the same, the note is resting on the middle of the family breakfast table, now, and I am already far away from home.

Far, far away.

In fact, I am presently on the planet of Midgard, doing what I was _supposed_ to do, for the sake of both genuine curiosity and validation of my claim in the note.

Specifically, I am now crouched on a sheltered spot – a cave-like overhang – somewhere on Midgard's southern pole, ostensibly observing, cataloguing and gathering the soft greenish purple moss that thickly carpets this place.

It _is_ supposed to be a genuine act. However, a damp wind is blowing from the sea, now, and snow is falling gently, and everything reminds me of… something. Something that triggers a phantom ache of hunger in my stomach and loss in my chest.

This situation, this environment, is _familiar_, for some reason. But _how_? This place is colder than the coldest part on Asgard! And, to my knowledge, I was never brought anywhere else – not even to vanaheim – when I was too little for proper recollection, which must have triggered this déjà vu moment.

Well, I would rather not dwell on the conclusion I have just come to, which has sent me into this stupour in the first place.

Because, why in the universe would my parents have brought sickly little me to _Jötunheim_?


	5. The Hounding Disorientation

Invitation  
By Rey

5\. The Hounding Disorientation

A day of questing – _and questioning myself_ – has turned into a week, a month, a year, a tenth of a century…. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I cannot escape my morbid curiosity about Jötunheim, and that is the single most frustrating, upsetting, perplexing feeling that I can really live without.

Today is no different.

I meant to just snoop round the entry points to the acurst planet, mapping out my escape routes in advance from as many angles as I could cover.

Well, I managed to visit only _three_ of them before my curiosity got the better of me.

And here I am, _on Jötunheim_, armed with only three points of egress, garbed in only moderately thick clothes, but feeling as if I were _home_ in a nicely _cool_ temperature.

And _even worse_, the landscape that I can see till the horizon shows a more beautiful sight – or at least more varied – than the southern end of Midgard. Rolling, snow-layered hills, _running_ streams, squat bushes with lush, fat purplish green little leaves, a sharp white snout peeking out from amidst a particularly thick clump of bushes….

I look round to all directions, seeing but still unable to take in anything, let alone putting everything into a coherent picture.

I don't think I erred in navigating the hidden paths, or in determining where I would end up – where I _am_ right now. But… but… but….


	6. The Surreal Reality

Invitation  
By Rey

6\. The Surreal Reality

_Eyes_ are on me: invisible, ever-moving, flowing in and out of my mental perception as if they do not care that I am here, that I can perceive them, that I may be quite hostile.

The unseen attention is disconcerting. The dismissive rejection is _hurtful_.

Apparently, even a race of monsters dismisses me as not a threat, _inconsequential_.

I have trekked for quite some time along the snow-layered, potholed, uneven path running beside the field of bushes. Even now, the soft, bluish white light bathing everything all round is turning warmer, more creamy, although the temperature is paradoxically dropping to an almost uncomfortable level. Well, the day is about to change into night, apparently.

If "day" is what _civilised people_ usually call "night," that is. But I guess, in this case, the frost giants have no say in the matter. The sun that shines on this planet is _supposed_ to be bad – almost toxic – to them, if they do not protect themselves against it in some way. The reflection of sunlight on snow is also _supposed_ to be blinding to their sensitive eyes.

At least, that is what "_The Children of Ýmir: A Compendium_ says.

The _huge, thick book_ about this very race of monsters that I nicked from _and have not returned_ to Father's highly restricted bookshelf. It is even still in my possession, right now, tucked away in my pocket dimension. Father will be doubly angry with me for this excursion because of that… maybe… probably….

And I will be a truly sorry trespasser if I do not get to meet any of the frost giants – _in a more-or-less civilised manner_ – within the next candlemark, at that. Because I have not forgotten _either_ that the more aggressive predators in this wasteland usually roam near where the vegetation is most abundant.

I need to _call out to them_, then, and ask for a temporary shelter with any of them, however distasteful and daunting the prospect is.

Maybe, the presence of the book will also help?

So, without further ado, without breaking my stride, and with trepidation saturating every pinprick of my body, I weave additional defensive wards round myself and cloak them to prevent detection. And then I fish the book that started it all from my pocket dimension and wave it around high over my head. "Greetings!" I declare at the same time in my loudest banquet-hall voice. "I'm a scholar! I'm a healer as well! I come in peace! I mean you no harm! Might I seek shelter with you for the night?"

I feel so, so, so foolish.

I feel even more foolish as the candlemark melts by, alongside every thump of my increasingly disconsolate step.

Nobody is answering my call. The passing attention that has brushed by me has vanished _entirely_ into the thin, cold air, in fact.

What am I doing wrong?

"Hello?" I wave the huge, thick book again, making sure that the silvery embossed title on its blue cover is visible, reflected by the emerging sunlight. Bör's beard – it is a _book_, not a _weapon_! Are the jötnar so cowardly that they fear _a book_?

"Please! I–."

My next call dies a strangled death in my throat, and my half-hearted strides halt just as abruptly.

Somebody is suddenly standing before me, only a few paces away. They were _completely unseen_ just a moment ago, and they do _not_ look like a jötun – the jötun that is described and illustrated in the book that is now tucked against my chest, at least. They are just about a head taller than I am, with skin a glowing white under the sunlight, eyes the colour of some Midgardian pale purple-blue-pink flower, and shoulder-length bushy hair as bright blue as the sky on that planet at noon. They are also wearing some kind of footware – an orange pair of minimalistic sandals, in fact – and proper clothing, if indecently cut: a bold-yellow baggy tunic without sleeves and with bright-red patterns on it, and a pair of baggy, bright-pink trousers with piping shawn on mid-thigh.

But somehow, I would prefer a huge, two-legged beast with blue skin, silvery marks, black claws and red glowing eyes to… this… _eyesore_.

And, as if they could read my mind despite my tight mental shields, they raise one apple-green eyebrow, spread their arms wide and drawl in perfect Allspeak, "See anything you do not like, stranger?"

Only then I realise that I have been gaping like a fool. `_Damn._`

"I – what – no! – I mean…," I splutter, blushing, worse when the other eyebrow – this one pale brown – joins its apple-green compatriot high up on the eyesore's fringed brow.

"You mean, you would like to invade our homes single-handedly, Asgardian style, trusting to the power of a book and a fortress' worth of defensive Workings?"

My eyes widen exponentially. So that is why…. But…. So…?

"N-no, that is never my intention. I apologise for any mistakenly… I mean, hostile-seeming… action… or something else… that you may have derived from… well, all of this." I wave helplessly at my own self with my free hand. I am acutely aware that I am but one Asgardian in a land – a _planet_ – hostile to Asgardians. My entry point has been left behind so far away by now, as well, and there is no nearby point of egress that I can use. But to try to sweet-talk my way out of this predicament would see me even weaker than I am, and _that_ I cannot afford.

Oh, damn. I am _trapped_ here. `_Talk fast, Loki. This eyesore is far __**less**__ frightening than your father in a fit of temper._`

But my mouth opens and closes without any sound coming out, and after a while the offended eyesore-who-does-not-look-like-a-jötun huffs out a breath, clearly irritated and impatient.

They take pity on me, though, thankfully, although my pride is well bruised by now because of this last blow.

"Come, you silly child," they snap, one hand now beckoning me to them. "Wait until I tell your mother about this stunt of yours."


	7. The Eyesore among Eyesores

Invitation  
By Rey

7\. The Eyesore among Eyesores

The eyesore leads me to a small flying skiff, which seems far less organic than those that Asgard possesses and uses, and which looks almost too small for a frost giant's vehicle. It is coloured _bold yellow_, with strips and marks of grey, blue, white and green. Predictably, the leather upholster of the – large but not gigantic – seats inside is made up of wildly different colours. Thankfully the bulkhead has just one colour on it, a comparably subdued one at that: bright green.

But the floor… it is coloured the tone of _æsir blood_.

So much for soothing – _one-tone_ – colours. And this just shows how unfavourably Asgard is viewed by someone even as ridiculous as this eyesore, too. The jötnar blithely walking on æsir blood….

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the notion out of my mind. "Where are we going?" I ask, instead of attempting to ponder the meaning behind these clashing colours.

"Are you Loptr or Loki?" is the return question, as baffling and nonsensical as the mad colour theme is.

I gape. – What should I say? How does _this jötun_ know? Who is Loptr?

Then again, why did they threaten me with _telling my mother about my stunt_? How does they know Frigga-Queen?

Unfortunately, the skiff's door slides shut before I can retrace my steps there, and, for a giant, the eyesore is terribly swift in grabbing me by the collar to prevent my escape.

"Let go of me!"

`_Damn. How could you be this reckless and inattentive, Loki?_`

I blame the horrible, horrible colouring of the skiff. Because, just as the eyesore is hauling me to one of the seats in front, I catch sight of multicoloured decorative images painted on the bright-green bulkhead nearby.

A webbed belt that runs across my lap and shoulders clicks shut with finality before I can recover.


	8. The School

Invitation  
By Rey

8\. The School

It is so, so, so hard to remain composed and silent when one is trapped in a hostile realm with a mad, mad, mad jötun without any means or person to succour me. The baffling surprises that keep ambushing me since then only make it worse.

Firstly, the jötun – Eðlenstr, or "Ýto Etta" as they insisted I call them – wanted me to _return to my natural form_. As if I had any other "natural" form! And then they turned into a huge, blue-skinned, red-eyed, silvery-marked brute which I'd firstly expected a jötun to look, and _turned me into such a beast_, as well! The process – the foreign seiðr that bound me at a very, very deep level that they drew out using a _convenient_ ward sapper – was not pain-free, either.

And then, after a _very uncomfortable night_ in which we shared the same bed-like structure to rest, followed by a wheedling interrogation that made me long for a real interrogation performed by bandits, this jötun had the gall to _enroll me in some education system_. "You need to occupy yourself while I send word to the Capital, and I need to perform my daily duties in the meantime, so this is the best for the both of us," was all they said while painting over some of the markings on my body and dressing me in _a single short skirt with nothing underneath_. My strenuous objections and arguments and questions lasted from that point till they picked me up and carried me all the way to the establishment, passing however many _curious_ jötnar on the way, but they either deflected or outright ignored those _valid_ concerns.

And here I am, seated on a cushion in a room together with jötnar of various sizes – and apparently, ages – and failing to sneak away, _even once_. What Eðlenstr said to the caretakers of this place – in a language I did _not_ recognise, at that – must have been a warning for the latters to pay special attention on me trying to escape this bizarre nightmare.

Apparently, they have given some other instructions to the caretakers, too, because one of them has just piled a reader and a stack of data crystals on my lap, with the instruction to read everything and ask for help if I encounter any difficulty.

Well, at least this one is somewhat bearable. Knowledge is knowledge, after all, whatever it is and from whichever source it comes. I have been left alone, at that, tucked on a rather secluded corner.

The longer I am going through the first crystal on the stack – a bilingual children's primer, apparently for learning the vocalisation _and script_ of the language that Allspeak failed to translate – however, the more distracted I become. New questions surface in my mind, but this time they are not about me or my being here.

For one, this book seems _not_ customed for a specific child. And, from here, I can hear a few little children – who were _fully naked_, last I saw them, recently – sounding out segments of the very primer that I am slogging through, so this primer is actually a _mass-produced_, compulsory read for students. And it would mean that, here, in _Jötunheim_, literacy is _compulsory_.

For two, I spied a few older – or at least bigger – jötnar doing small acts of _controlled seiðr_ under the close supervision of a tutor, before I set to with the primer, and I can even hear them debating about using seiðr to dig a tunnel versus doing it by hand, presently. So, apparently, _here_, _seiðr_ is also a subject of open learning, whether compulsory or not.

And given the many jötnar of various sizes – and maybe walks of life, too, as I have just heard a jötun nearby, who is bigger than I am, grumbling about helping in the farm after school – learning here, education itself is compulsory for _everyone_, not only for young children, and not only for those of noble birth.

But what use is education for savages?

Not that the pupils and their tutors here can be truly categorised as "savages," I have to admit, even just to myself.

I am _severely_ confused….


	9. The Perception

Invitation  
By Rey

9\. The Perception

The longer I read the books contained in the data crystals, intersperced with references to the language primer, the more fluent I become in the language itself, at least in reading, and in picking up spoken words from the crowds.

I demur when one of the tutors comes to fetch me for midday meal, as there are a couple of books yet that I have not read. They insist, however, saying, "Little ones need to eat regularly to grow big."

"I am already big," I point out, trying to go with humorous instead of offended. "If I eat too much, I shall grow to the side, instead of up."

They scoff, albeit laughingly, to that. "You should know better by now," they chide me, while gently prying my fingers away from the reader. "It is just a ploy for your elder relatives to take greater portions of the meals, most likely. Although they should know better, as well, really. Stealing food from children's mouths is punished severely after the war. – Ha, Interested? Well, if you come eat now, Elder Lúkra shall select you a book of updated laws, and we can discuss some of it together. How about it, little one?"

I frown. – How old do they think I am, for them to treat me like a child? Eðlenstr treated me thus, and now this tutor. Is it because my height is similar to some of the students here and they are all children? Do children here discuss about _laws_ with adults, anyway?

And what will happen _to me_ should I persist in denying their wishes? Are they going to force me? Are they going to punish me for not obeying? What do they use as punishment for children – and perceived children – here, anyway? _The Children of Ýmir_ did not say that. But then again, I did not pay attention to _all_ aspects contained in that thick tome, just select few. Besides, I am here for a knowledge-gathering mission, am I not? Book learning can teach only so much, although _The Children of Ýmir_ has been more informative and comprehensive than most tomes I have read.

_Still_, somehow, getting punished _here_ for the sake of acquiring knowledge about such topic is… more risky and reckless than I would be comfortable with. I could always just _ask_ about it once I have established some sort of rapport with this jötun, no?

And the rapport would not be established should I disobey…. Damn it.

So, purposefully radiating reluctance, I comply with them.

And they _chuckle_, even as they take my hand in theirs and lead me away from my reading station.

Damn. I have never felt so _small_ before, and it is not all about the huge height difference between this jötun and I, either.


	10. The Outing

Invitation  
By Rey

10\. The Outing

Days have flown by, and yet I am still trapped in the realm of the frost giants.

Well, to be honest, at least to myself, I did not try hard to escape, past the first time Eðlenstr dropped me off in this mixed classroom. Because, for a race of supposed barbaric brutes drunk on power, the jötnar turn out to have a wealth of knowledge and skills – esoteric and otherwise – and a rather rich culture, and I have been spending the days absorbing as much information as possible. Here, I can sequester myself somewhere without being forgotten, as well.

I am currently tempted to _really_ try to vacate the premises and return to Asgard, however. How not? The tutors have arranged a sudden week-long trip to and around Útgarð for the pupils – _including me_, no doubt – for tomorrow!

They call it a big treat. I call it a big disaster. Especially when they promise the pupils a possibility of meeting the Monarch.

I have no desire _whatsoever_ to see Laufey in person!

I cannot avoid going with the masses, unfortunately, as Eðlenstr is also coming in the trip, and they have set themself as my minder.

I cannot sneak away right now, either, because, apparently knowing in advance that the pupils will not be able to concentrate on their studies with this news hanging over their heads, the tutors are arranging everyone for a short outing to a plantation just outside this settlement.

Still, I try.

I tell "Elder Lúkra" – my main minder while in the classroom – that I am hungry and would like to return to Eðlenstr's house to fetch some snack to bring with me. But they _accompany me_ there instead of letting me go alone.

I tell them next that there are so many books in the library that I am yet to read. And they reason – in quite a reasonable voice that makes me feel so much like a child – that I will have time both after this outing and before the trip tomorrow, not to mention during the trip. If I am lucky, I might even have access to _the palace's library_ in Útgarð once we arrive there.

I try to slip away without saying anything, in the end, as we are returning to the library that also houses the classroom. But, as calmly as before, the pesky jötun just _picks me up_ and refuses to let me walk on my own two feet, even when we rejoin the crowd of pupils and tutors, who are boarding a large transport that bears the same emblem as the one painted on the side of the library's building.

Worse yet, one of the owners of the plantation _stares thoughtfully_ at me, when we disembark in the parking site. Elder Lúkra theorises – privately to me, once we are touring the plantation along with the others – that our kinlines match each other, so the plantation owner might wonder why they have never known me before this.

That does not explain the _recognition_ that I briefly saw in those mellow eyes, however, especially given the fact that the "kinlines" mentioned have been painted over by Eðlenstr each morning. But I do not seek to enlighten Elder Lúkra – who is _still_ keeping me captive in their arms – about that.

Let them wonder. I do not wonder. I simply seek to _go home_.


	11. The Identities

Invitation  
By Rey

11\. The Identities

I manage to confront Eðlenstr regarding what they know about my mother only when we are already on the way to Útgarð. The teachers and pupils have been separated into tiny groups that fit in small, fast transports instead of the single big one from the day before, and the two of us happen to share the same transport, which also bears Elder Lúkra and the plantation owner from yesterday, Elder Lýða. The convoy is also guarded by armed vehicles from all angles, which makes me curious, but not curious enough to ask about it before I pursue the matter of how _a jötun_ could have been so familiar with _Frigga the Allmother_ to have threatened me with her wrath.

Of course, I do not name her outright, as such could be used by Heimdall to defeat the shield of invisibility that I have been sheltering under all this while since I left Asgard. I use the rare chance of privacy when the two other jötnar seated in front are talking lowly among themselves, as well.

But, as the answer, Eðlenstr only stares at me shrewdly and thoughtfully for a long, long, long while.

I ask why they gave me the plantation owner's "kin-lines" as part of my identity, next, to circumnavigate the wall of silence.

Sadly, it meets with the same obstruction.

But, before I can choose another question to yet again try to find some weak point in Eðlenstr's stubborn silence, they speak at last, with solemn gravity that startles me for its alienness on them: "I think, we are talking about different individuals."

They explain that they know the plantation owner personally and find the latter trustworthy in keeping secrets and guarding children, before I can push the matter.

I scowl at them. Like their previous statement, this elaboration is clearly missing a huge, important chunk.

"I am not a child, you know, where I am from, as I told you countless times before," I point out flatly, bluntly. "The knowledge is rightfully mine, and you are concealing it from me."

They simply give me a look that would otherwise be represented by a raised eyebrow.

I take a deep breath and give them my best cool, regal glare.

They _smile wanly_ at me, to that.

_Reminiscently_, even.

And people often say my cool, regal glares are akin to my father….

How did they know not only Frigga the Allmother but also _Odin the Allfather_?

Damn it. _Yet another question_, while the previous ones have not been answered satisfactorily – _or at all_.

The glare crumples into a scowl.

Their smile deepens, becomes wanner, but also becomes fonder.

"You will find out once we are in the capital, child," they promise me softly, while giving the tip of my nose a gentle tap with a finger.

"I prefer to be forewarned," I rebut.

"People prefer many things, and some of those are never realised," they retort mildly, before fishing out a reader machine from their poket dimension. "Now, let us practise your Ýmska."


	12. The Capital City

Invitation  
By Rey

12\. The Capital City

I never thought, nor expected, nor ever wanted to visit Útgarð, the capital city of these… people. I usually avoid such places, anyway, when I travel and explore in the rest of the Nine and outside of it. Less chance of recognition, that, and also less Asgard-like clamourous noises to contend with.

But now here I am: walking among a croud of schoolchildren on what our tour guide claims as one of the main thoroughfairs of the said capital city, which is astonishingly busy and loud but not unbearably so, and being lifted and boosted up every so often by the respective teachers assigned to us in order to look at particular landmarks – _humongous_ landmarks – better.

I never feel _this_ small. Not since I _thankfully_ left my childhood behind.

But, truth be told, the landmarks here – the murals, paintings and little lights livening up the walls of the gigantic buildings, the familiar and unfamiliar objects displayed on the shop-fronts, squat bushes with purple needles and clustered white seashell shapes for flowers dotting someone's yard, and more – are _not_ so ugly to look at, although the dimensions are of course far larger than I am used to. Elder Lúkra – my minder for this tour – never seeks to treat me as a child, at that, beyond hoisting me up into their arms whenever I crain my neck too much and too far.

Now, I can only hope that I will _not_ be recognised anywhere here, and that I will be able to corner Eðlenstr to demand their promised explanation some time soon.

I have already planned to slip away and either return to Asgard or roam more, once the procession is approaching the palace – the largest but not much grander building round here – crouching on top of a tall hill roughly on the centre of this surprisingly small, surprisingly simple city. However, until then, I am determined to enjoy myself.

Including saying "Yes" as cheerfully as the crowd of schoolchildren when, from the front of the procession, Eðlenstr chirpily asks who wants to have some sweet snow.

Well, a traveller must be able to blend in with the populace, right? Especially when their respective realms do not have good relations with each other? I am simply blending in, yes I am.


	13. The Rumours

Invitation  
By Rey

13\. The Rumours

It is _very hard_ to enjoy a treat – which is _truly_ a treat to my palate, in this case, surprisingly, with how the "sweet snow" is a perfect blend of sweet and sour and a tinge of bitter – when, at the same time, I must listen to how the jötnar young and old gathered in this previously empty "little" sweet-snow eatery gossiping about the courtiers, the royal guards, and even _the monarch_.

"The Monarch lost their newborn firstborn to death and to kidnapping," Elder Lýða, seated across from me, explains lowly when, a few seats away on my side of the bench, Jormúðr – "Jori", they are always insisting to be called, a child who is unbelievably three centuries _older_ than I am – tells everyone in a stage whisper morbid stories – surely not _recountings_? – about how the Monarch punished the _families_ who would make their children impersonate "the lost ones."

"How many children does the Monarch have?" I ask cautiously, reasonably sure that Eðlenstr – who is terribly subdued now, somehow, ever since we landed here – has told them how we met however long ago it has been, and therefore they know very well how ignorant I am about this realm's everyday history and politics.

"Two," the jötun grunts unhappily. "Just the two, and twins at that, so the poor surviving half must be suffering the lack, not only their dam. So you can see how horrible those _creatures_ were, to taunt them so with such a terrible hope, time and time again."

I give a handwave of a shrug, imitating one of the gestures the jötnar often use. "I cannot say," I offer, even more careful than before, when they scowl at me. "I am only a visitor here. I am not a parent, either."

"Youth is no excuse for lack of empathy or even just _sympathy_, child," they point out, even more unhappy than before, then let out a sigh. "Well, in any case, those stories have a grain of truth in them, and let that be a very useful free lesson to you: You had better not upset a grieving dam so. But do not believe what you hear blindly, child."

"I know that already," I huff. "I was not born just yesterday, after all."

Their gimlet eye quails me before I can catch myself.

But their gentle, wry rebuke is worse: "Are you in the habbit of needling people into adding on to your misery when you are feeling miserable, child?"

I look down and shovel another spoonfull of the sauce-drizzled, fruit-littered fine snow into my mouth, cheeks burning.

Fortunately, Elder Lýða does not pursue the awkward, embarrassing matter further, and I am allowed to eat in relative peace, while listening to the many stories flying round.

But all too soon, the teachers call for silence, and Eðlenstr, standing at the far end of my bench, once more instructs us on how to greet the Monarch, should we be lucky enough to experience such.

I glare at that particular jötun when they corner me, picking me up into their arms, while the others are filing out of the eatery, although there is not much heat in it given how miserable and somehow hopelessly yearning they look. "Are you going to tell me how you knew my mother, now?" I demand in a low voice, nearly inaudible amidst the noises the pupils and some of the teachers make. "We are here, and you have not fulfilled that promise to me until now."

They glare back at me, but soon look away, fidgeting with some of my hair.

Still looking _not_ at me, they murmur, "Be as gentle and understanding as you can should you meet the Monarch, please, child, and none of your cheek. If you have not deduced it yet, you are of the same age as the lost ones. I…. Grief makes – grief _can_ make people do and say and think things they otherwise won't do or say or think."

They fall silent, afterwards, just cuddling me close and seeming to refrain from doing or saying… or doing _and_ saying something.

I… don't like this version of Eðlenstr, I find. – They are odd, they are cheerful, they are _overly_ colourful. They are _not_ supposed to be morose or restrained or… well, like _this_.

"Did the Monarch do something to you?" I switch demands.

They twitch.

I scowl.

"Not the Monarch," they confess at last, in a flat tone, when I let out a growl. "But… well, I ought to have been there, I ought to have taken the hit for them, but I wasn't there, and… well, things happened."

They twitch again.

"So you were… what? Banned from the palace?" I hazard a guess.

They answer by shoving me into Elder Lýða's arms and melting into the background without another word or look at me.

And all that Elder Lýða remarks about the tableau is: "Your misery loves company very much, it seems."

Damn. For being giant monsters, the jötnar are so apt in making me feel so small _without_ ever looming over me.

And now, I must contend with _possibly_ meeting Laufey, for the sake of my curiosity about the rumours – of all things!

Ah, damn it all.


	14. The Audience

Invitation  
By Rey

14\. The Audience

"Oooooh, they're such a majestic monarch!" Jormúðr croons eagerly and admiringly from their perch beside me, high on the decorative ledge of an alcove inside the audience hall of the palace, opposite the dais where an adult frost giant – rather large, but not as large as many, and lankier than most as if the result of a food shortage – is seated stiffly in a simple throne of stone and ice. We have been hoisted up here by a pair of helpful royal guards, who nonetheless warned us sternly not to disrupt the proceedings with anything we do or say or think, or we are going to be removed from the hall and not allowed in again.

I elbow their side.

I am beginning to regret having let this morbid tale-teller come with me, when I snuck away from the school's procession, once Elder Lýða excused themself to conduct the business which had seen them incidentally come here with us.

Jormúðr is not only a morbid tale-teller, apparently, but also a morbid individual all in all, at least to me.

Because even _Father_ is less grim than Laufey is, and people already consider Father a grim, reserved king, and there is _always_ a grim reason – _or many of such_ – for such a look to be one's _engrained bearing_ instead of just a passing expression.

A grim reason such as unfortunately possessed by Grandfather Njord, King of Vanaheim, who lost practically _everything and everyone_ in Vanaheim's war against Asgard more than two millennia ago: the sovereign rule of his own realm, his only son and heir who has been exiled to Alfheim by Asgard to rule as puppet king there, his eldest daughter who has been spirited away to Asgard to become a political hostage for his good conduct and companion for her younger sister, who has in turn been made the warbride of the then King Bor's youngest son Odin, whose forced wedding to Odin Borson broke her queen-mother's heart so that the latter passed away in grief.

Or like Father, Odin Borson himself, who once admited that Frigga his queen was his cherished close friend first and foremost and he was _not_ really considering marrying her at that time, who nonetheless _must_ wed her under his father's edict, who then lost _all_ his family – his father, mother and three elder brothers – but his warbride and his toddling firstborn son in Asgard's war against Jötunheim, who then must rebuild Asgard _nearly right from scratch_ as the late King Bor had depleted their coffers and ranks of warriors in the previous wars – against the Dark Elves, against Thanos the Mad Titan's forces, against Vanaheim, against Jötunheim….

So, yes, a grim ruler does _not_ automatically make for a majestic one.

It makes for a sad one, in fact.

And I never thought that I would pity _the top-most leader of the frost giants_.

Now I also see why Eðlenstr urged me to be gentle and understanding to Laufey.

But, unfortunately for me, I cannot explain all this to Jormúðr, so I am stuck listening to them commenting cheerfully under their breath about how the petitioners behave and how Laufey reacts to each of those.

Many of the petitioners are equally – or almost as – grim, a few are pitying, and others try to veil their scorn behind a venere of neutrality or adoration. But none dares approach close to the dais, or fight to make themselves heard first, or argue for better deals for themselves.

At a glance, the behaviour of the petitioners would suggest fear towards Laufey. But there is no indication of anger, arrogance or overflow of power that would suggest Laufey being a tirant leader, like I encountered several times in my travels, although there is also no liveliness to be felt like in a healthy court, even a most formal one like among the Light Elves of Alfheim.

It is a conundrum, indeed, and I spend a long while pondering it.

And then, with a jab of an elbow at my ribs accompanied by a _somewhat_ discrete motioning hand, a giggling Jormúðr attracts my wandering attention to the latest petitioner, who is garbed for once in what an Asgardian might charitably term a full attire, although it is made up of just a series of flimsy, mostly see-through, pearl-hemmed fabrics with different cuts and lengths arranged to drape over one another _and_ highlight their pearl-colour-painted four-braided kin-lines.

"A suiter!" they hoot eagerly, and I hastily throw up a shield against escaping sound to muffle their stupidly loud exclamation… rather belatedly.

And, just so, Laufey's eyes are suddenly, sharply trained on us.

"Lower your voice, you fool!" I hiss under my breath, hunkering low on the ledge, glowering fiercely at the now-pale loudmouth. But it is too late already.

Far too late.

Because Laufey is striding past the petitioners _towards this ledge_.

"Come!" I yank at Jormúðr's arm, intending to drag him down the ledge, out of the hall and away from Laufey's attention.

But the royal guards prevent us from slinking away.

The doors are even closed and locked in front of our noses.

And the petitioners are being ushered out through a few other, smaller doors.

Jormúðr is even separated from me and ushered away, just as Laufey reaches us.

I scowl, masking my fright as much as I can.

It is hard to maintain such a fierce expression, however, when Laufey _kneels_ before me and _so tentatively_ reaches out a hand to _so gently_ trace my facial features, my hair, the _hidden_ lines on my face and arms and front….

They lay the same hand on my chest, then, coated with a smidge of their power, their seiðrborn presence.

A _somehow familiar_ gesture. An _even more familiar_ power.

Our eyes meet, both wide and disbelieving.

"Elder Lýða told me," they croak out in a whisper, dazed, as if speaking to themself. "I…. Loptr?"

The latter name is spoken in a small whine, as if let out by a small animal in pain. And there is a terrible hope in their glistening eyes, the kind of hope that I would wager would break them into irretrievable pieces should it prove false.

My breath hitches.

Forget them; I am _already_ in pieces.

Because the name, in addition to the gesture and the seiðr, summons something _visceral_ in me – a visceral _recognition_, part of a soul-deep _bond_, a very old _memory_ – that I cannot turn away from, cannot deny, cannot help but _drink in_.

We drown together in each other, in no time at all.

`_Loptr,_` they whisper softly, reverently, mind-to-mind, when my traitorous mouth lets escape an all-too-similar small, pained whine. `_Loptr,_` they repeat with incredulous relish.

And then, as if in the act of reaffirmation – or maybe it is – with their seiðr-coated hand still laid on my chest, they whisper aloud, "Loptr Laufey-childe, welcome home."

And I _still_ cannot deny it.

Now, somehow, some part of me _does not want to deny it_, either.

I am not a visitor. I am home.


End file.
